THE FIGHT ON THE RIVER.
The current in the river was running barely a mile an hour, and it
was difficult to make the canoes go more than four or five, even by
paddling desperately. And at first they did not dare paddle too
hard, for fear of being heard.
But as soon as they got well round the first bend, they put their
backs into it, and finally the Baker's boat drew ahead. When he saw
this, Mandeville stopped paddling.
"Get in ours, old man; one's enough."
"What about this one?" said Smith.
They steered over to the other bank, and left it there. For when
they capsized it, they found it would not sink as they hoped.
"But we've all the paddles," said the girl, the beautiful cause of
the war.
They paddled steadily once more, until Smith suddenly made a sound
expressive of entire vexation.
"What is it?" said the Baker.
"We've no food, and the water-bags are left behind."
The Baker laughed.
"Water enough, sonny; and h'as for food, Miss Kitty, 'ere, will have
to find it."
"What made the big noise?" asked Kitty, which was what the Baker had
christened the girl.
And Mandeville showed her the revolver in his belt.
"Smith has one like it. It makes a noise and kills men. She came
down to the river to tell me about the row as was likely to be,
Smith."
"And brought it on right off," said Smith; "and if this hadn't
happened we might have got away with tucker and everything else
to-morrow. It's cursedly annoying."
And they paddled steadily for half an hour, still keeping as much in
the shade as possible. The river ran here between deep-cut, steep
banks, lined all the way with very high and heavy timber. As it
seemed, there was much scrub as well, and this gave Smith hopes that
if they were pursued by land they would not be seen. In any case,
the presence of scrub would make pursuit difficult. He wondered what
the girl thought of it. She should know how her tribe would act.
"Kitty, what will your people do?" he said, when they took a spell
after an hour's steady paddling, which made the sweat pour down them
like water. But Smith noticed that the girl, who worked quite as
hard, had never turned a hair.
"If they catch us they will take your heads," she said.
"And you?"
"They would kill me unless I said you had taken me against my will,
Smith. And I would not say that because I want to go with Baker. I
am glad you killed Tommy. I did not like him."
"But do you think they will catch us?" asked Smith, as they began
paddling again.
She shook her head.
"Perhaps the big noise frightened them. If they do not find we took
the boats, they will not come after us. They were afraid of you,
Smith, many of them. Because, in spite of what Big Jack's father
said, we did not believe there were any other white men in the world.
And they said you were jumped up after being dead."
The Baker laughed.
"You didn't, Kitty?"
"Not after you kissed me," said Kitty.
"Oh," said Smith, "indeed. That's it, is it?"
But the Baker took his paddle again. They worked hard for another
hour.
"Thank the Lord this river isn't like the Lachlan," said Smith, "all
curls, and whirls, and meanderings. It does seem to go straight.
Kitty, can you get anything to eat here?"
"I could get a 'possum, perhaps," said Kitty, "but we shall not be
hungry till to-morrow. And there are plenty of white grubs under the
dead bark."
At which the Baker visibly squirmed. That his wild lady-love should
eat grubs seemed rather too much.
He began to wonder what he would do with her if they ever got back to
some kind of civilisation, and could only console himself with the
poor consolation that they were never likely to do so. For to be on
an unknown river, going into the unknown with no food and little
chance of any, and a savage set of headhunters after them, seemed
heavy odds against a lucky termination to their wanderings. He was
glad to slave at the paddle to keep from speculating.
And as Smith worked, the whole adventure assumed the peculiar quality
of a dream. It was just that kind of vision which sometimes comes to
a man who has had adventures. Often in the old days, when in some
kind of ease, he had dreamed such dreams, which began suddenly with
his going somewhere in a strange impossible land, with some strange
and yet more impossible perils in front of him. As he thought of the
last week or two, it seemed to him that he had never left New Find at
all. Was not the whole adventure of the nature of a nightmare. He
had suffered dream thirst, and dream hunger, and had come into a mere
vision of mixed origin, of knowledge and fantasy, and had handled
fairy gold. And now he and his dream companions were stretched on
the rack of imagination, toiling down a black river, margined by
ghostly trees, clear-cut against a gibbous moon, with pre-historic
devils behind them. For he conceived it as possible that no one
would credit their story if they ever returned. But, then, the girl
was with them. If they brought her back, and did obtain belief
through her corroboration, it pleased him to think that he could make
a rare stir in the world of travel. At the very notion, ambitions
long dead within him began to lift their heads. But was not that the
biggest dream of all?
By this time the moon, which had been almost in front of them for
some time as their river turned nearly due west, came closer to the
trees, and was soon hidden. It was now close on midnight, perhaps
even later, and he was conscious of feeling fatigued.
"Spell, oh!" he said softly, and they floated idly for some minutes.
"I've been thinking, Baker," he said, "that the most dangerous time
for us will be in the early morning. For if they go for the canoes
and see we have them, as they must, and if they do determine to chase
us, they will surely have the savvy to go as fast as they can down
the river, and wait for us. At the utmost, we can't have done much
more than thirty miles when it begins to get light. And if they
aren't scared of going into an unknown country, they can do that too,
if they hurry and trot a bit."
The Baker nodded.
"And what's your notion?"
"I think as soon as it begins to show the first sign of dawn we had
better shove the canoes into the bank here, hide them, and lie up and
see what happens. What's the girl think, I wonder."
"She's asleep," said the Baker. "Poor little devil."
She was lying in the bottom of the canoe, with her head on the
Baker's knees.
"Yes," said Smith, "and you've acted like an idiot over this, Baker."
"I could'n 'elp it," said the gay Lothario anything but gaily.
"She's a reg'lar scorcher, she is, and she fair rushed me. And if
'er 'air was combed, and she was washed, she'd be good-lookin'."
"Um," said Smith, "lay her down, and let's start again."
So they paddled once more, and Kitty, who was not used to such
exercise, lay on her arm and her matted hair, which would have defied
anything less than a horse's mane comb, and slept like a child in a
rocked cradle.
"If we get through, you'll have to marry your catch," said Smith,
when they easied.
"I'd as soon do that as marry some as 'ave clawed after me," said the
Baker. "I reckon she's a kind of princess, and if so be as we land
some of the posh, and are rich, I'll 'ave 'er eddicated at a 'igh
school. Lord, but she'd wake some of 'em up, if she got slingin'
yarns about 'ead 'unting. 'Ow does a man who marries a princess call
'imself, Smith? is 'e a prince, too?"
"He's her husband, Baker," said Smith drily, "and is often mistaken
for a waiter. But I'd hold on if I were you."
When they spoke again it was black dark, for the moon was lower, and
the heavy timber made the river as sombre as a narrow cañon two
hundred feet deep.
"Go easy," cried Smith, "and look out, Baker, for any snags. It
won't do to get capsized. How's the girl?"
"Dreamin' of 'er 'appy 'ome!" said the Baker cheerfully. "I was just
wonderin', Smith, as to what that long, sulky swine, 'Icks, would
say, if 'e know'd what 'e'd missed. 'E could 'ave took up with the
Brodarro, and been king, being big and hugly enough. And what the
boys will say about Mrs. Mandeville 'ere rather does for me."
"You'll have to stand a lot of chiacking," said Smith, "but I'm
sorrier for the girl. What she will do in civilisation I don't know.
But it is getting light in the east, Baker. Look out for a
hiding-place."
They pulled in close to the southern bank, which was steep, but
broken with small gullies cut by the rain.
"None of those will do," said Smith, "and I'm afraid the river's too
low for us to get much cover, unless we find a creek. The one we
passed an hour ago would have done. Wake the girl up. We'd better
push on till we reach some sort of cover."
When Kitty was roused, she sat up and stared about her, as if she
were dazed. They explained to her what they wanted, and after
kissing the Baker's hand, an act of loving homage he received with
every visible sign of discomfort, they paddled on faster. And just
as it was obviously dawn, they came to a bit of a creek, and shoved
the canoe into it.
"If they come down this side, we're cooked," said the Baker.
"We must risk something," replied Smith. "They would hardly swim
over, when one side's like another."
And he uttered an exclamation.
"What is it?" asked the Baker.
"By Jove! perhaps they think we just crossed, shoved the canoes
adrift, and went back the way we came," he said.
"They might, but if they did, they would soon find out they were off
it," answered the Baker. "And then they might come down this side,
and our name would be--"
"We must chance it," said Smith. "Have you any tobacco? Jack took
all mine. I hope he'll go in for a debauch and get sick."
The Baker handed him over a fig of black twist, and he took a chew.
"Give it me," said Mrs. Mandeville, "I can eat, too."
It took a deal of explanation before she could understand that they
were chewing what would make her very ill, and even then she insisted
on trying.
"Don't take much," said the Baker anxiously, "you'll only spit it
out."
And spit it out she did with every sign of disgust, when she got the
savour of the luscious black morsel.
"I told you so, missis," said the Baker. "But ain't she just like a
woman, Smith?"
He said this with an air of intense enjoyment in discovering feminine
qualities in Kitty.
But Smith chuckled.
"What the devil else did you expect her to be like?" he demanded.
And Kitty, to take the taste out of her mouth, went ashore, in spite
of their remonstrances, and found something to eat, which they
refused with every sign of abhorrence.
"You eat bacca, I eat these," said Kitty, and the Baker found it so
difficult to explain to her that he was entitled, by his customs, to
make a beast of himself, that at last he began to see dimly that
chewing tobacco might be objectionable from some points of view.
And just as they were discussing the matter in low tones, Smith, who
was on a nervous stretch which made every sense preternaturally keen,
held up his hand warningly to the others.
"I thought I heard something," he said. "Listen."
And then all three distinctly heard the noise of some one or some
thing making its way through dense scrub.
"Kangaroos?" said the Baker.
But the girl smiled, and Smith shook his head.
"Lie low and say nothing," he whispered, as he got out of the canoe
with his cocked revolver in his hand. He lay flat on his stomach,
and wriggled a yard or two till he could see the further bank.
"Which side is it, Kitty?" asked the Baker, who began to trust the
girl's instincts better than his own.
She pointed across the stream.
"That's good," said the Baker; but, nevertheless, he got out his
weapon, turned the barrels to see they all had cartridges, and cocked
it.
And presently Smith came back, feet foremost, and inch by inch.
"They're there," he said.
"How many?"
"I see six, and there are some on the bank; at least, I think so.
They came from down stream. I was right, you see."
The Baker nodded.
"Who are they?"
"There's Big Jack, and some of the rest. Poor old Bill; I hope we
sha'n't have to wipe him out," said Smith. "He's the best of the
gang."
"Yes," said Mrs. Mandeville, "he is good. I like Bill. I want to
see, Smith."
"No, no," whispered Smith. "Keep quiet."
But she got out of the boat, sliding like a snake, and lay by him.
And gradually, with the invisible motion of a snake who sees its
prey, she crept out of the skin, which was her only garment, and went
the three yards between her and the low-growing scrub which concealed
them. She lay with her head in the scrub for ten minutes, and came
back again as she went.
"There are ten," she said, and, after the manner of a savage
counting, she showed her five fingers twice.
Smith, who had once read something about the low arithmetical powers
of savages, had noticed that these had not degenerated so far as to
come to the inclusive word "many," under a hundred.
"Yes, there are ten," she repeated; "and some want to go back, and
some want to go down the river again; and I think, Smith, that some
say, 'let us swim over.'"
"We can kill them all in the water," said Smith, showing his revolver.
She nodded.
"But they might come over further up," she added presently.
Smith looked behind him apprehensively. This was now all that he
feared. If they were taken by surprise in the rear, it would be a
close shave.
"Baker," he said, "turn round, and keep your eyes skinned and your
ears open. Don't trouble about this side. And you, Kitty, go back
and watch them."
Smith held out his hand to the Baker.
"Shake, old man," he said with emotion. "If we don't get out we've
been good pals."
"Right you are," replied the Baker. "Good old man."
And then Kitty put one hand behind her, and held up one finger. Then
she made a motion with her hand which suggested swimming.
"There's one swimming over," said Smith; "but don't you look round
unless I tell you."
And he went a little bit up the bank in order to get a view of the
stream. He saw a head in the water half way across, and was heartily
glad to see that it was not Bill. He looked at his six-shooter
again. It was only a forty-two calibre, and he had always been
accustomed to a forty-five; but he thought he could hit the man at
fifteen yards. He bent down, and made a low noise, which caused
Kitty to turn her head. He put his fingers to his ears, to make her
understand that she was not to be afraid, and, raising his revolver,
he brought it slowly down till he saw the foresight right in the
nick. Staying one second to make sure his hand was steady, he pulled
the trigger. He noticed that never in his life had the time seemed
so long from the time the hammer fell to the explosion of the
cartridge. But, as the shot echoed, the swimmer gave one plunge,
rolled over on his back, and went under.
And until a heavy body came tumbling down the bank and struck him
from his seat, he did not know that the Baker had fired at the very
same moment as himself. For one of their enemies was lying dead with
his matted hair in the very water under the canoe. And as the double
shot rang out, the men of the Brodarro rose upon the other bank, and
shouted terribly.
[Illustration: He did not know that the Baker had fired at the very
same moment as himself.]
"But they are awful scared," said Kitty, who was now back with the
Baker. "Who did you kill?"
And reaching out, she caught the dead man by the hair.
"It is Bill," she said lamentably. "I did not want Bill killed."
And the Baker could hardly speak. If it was possible to feel
affection for any man among that awful tribe, he had felt it for the
poor wretch who lay in the water killed by his hand. And this was
the first time that he had ever fired a shot in anger in his life.
He called to Smith in a low voice, but Smith waved to him angrily to
keep quiet. For he was wondering what the rest would do. Presently
he slipped down the bank and joined them.
"What will they do, do you think, Kitty?" he asked.
But the girl shook her head.
"If you kill Big Jack they will go," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"The others are not brave unless they see their enemies," she said.
"When we fought with the devil men in the caves, they were always
frightened at night. For the little men killed many of us with small
arrows."
"Give me your pistol, Baker," said Smith, and taking the bigger
weapon, he crawled down to the scrub.
It was a shot of forty yards, and he doubted his skill. But the
affair was desperate. If they went up or down stream, and swam
across, there were still eight to their two, and, in a hand to hand
rush, he could not doubt the termination.
Taking very careful aim, he at last fired, and fancied he heard the
bullet strike. He could even see the man's face, which was turned
towards him.
He noticed in that brief space of time that Big Jack dropped his
spear and put his hand to his heart. An expression of futile rage
passed over him as he staggered. He made an effort to keep his
balance, but, failing, fell on his knees. He rose again, grasping
his spear, but as he endeavoured to hurl it towards the quarter
whence his unseen death had come, he staggered again, fell headlong,
and rolled into the river.
And after one moment, in which the rest stood as though they were
carved figures, they broke, ran up the bank, and burst into the scrub
like startled kangaroos. Smith heard them breaking through it for a
long minute, and when the noise died away in the distance, he
returned to the canoe. He found the Baker looking greatly
distressed, for the girl was on the bank with the dead man's head
upon her knees, and she was sobbing terribly.
"She says she doesn't think Bill meant any 'arm," said the Baker,
"and for all I know, she's right, for she says him and his brother
never 'it it off. And perhaps 'e just meant to tell us to lie low."
And the Baker broke down and cried too.
"I feel just like a murderer," he said.
Smith, as he looked on the man stretched out upon the bank, could not
help thinking that he was as magnificent dead as he had been alive,
and far more like an ordinary human being who was not degenerate or
an unparalleled reversion. For, in the quiet sleep of death, much of
the ferocity natural to a savage had disappeared, and there was a
calmness on his face which gave him an air of peculiar and strong
serenity. He looked still like some ancient warrior, but centuries
had dropped away from him; instead of a savage of the Stone Age, clad
in skins, he might have been a Viking slain in some uncommon
adventure. His hair was now drawn backwards from his forehead by the
girl who mourned him, and she had separated his long golden moustache
from the deeper brown of his curly beard, and wiped away the bloody
froth from his lips. He looked like a man, sufficient to himself in
life or in death, brave, enduring, and now, almost wise. Smith
turned away with a sigh.
"I'm sorry for this," he said. "What shall we do now? What do you
do with the dead in your tribe, Kitty?" he asked.
"They are given to the ants," she said.
And between them the two men with difficulty carried the corpse up
the bank. Kitty, who went in front, showed them where she wanted the
body put. They returned in silence to their boat.
"I am very sorry, Kitty," said the Baker.
"You could not help it," sobbed the girl.
"And what shall we do now," asked Smith. "Do you think they will
come after us again?"
Kitty shook her head.
"They will be too frightened," she said. "I am frightened. How did
you do it?"
But there was no time to explain the inexplicable to her.
"Do you think we can go on?"
"Yes," said Kitty. "But first let us go over and see if they left
anything to eat on the other side."
"I tell you she's got a lot of savvy," said the Baker, who was
getting furiously hungry, and talked as if glad to discover the
strange girl who had attached herself to him was not quite a fool.
"She's got a lot of savvy."
And, crossing the stream, they found some lumps of kangaroo flesh
which had been half cooked. They turned the canoe down stream again,
and ate as they paddled.